Deciding to Let Your Children Into Your Bed

You have no idea how many times I checked to make sure I included the word "Your" before "Children" in the title of this blog.

Every parent has an opinion on this, one way or the other. And practically every parent has been in this situation at least once. It's 2:34 AM. Your five-year-old daughter comes barging into your room unannounced. You can't see or hear her, as she's standing silently in the dark. Afraid it may be a ghost, you hold your breath and peer into the darkness for visual confirmation one way or the other. You can't see her, of course, until she's within arms length, frighteningly staring at you with a blank expression. At that point, a ghost would've scared you less.

The decision then becomes "Am I willing to sacrifice what could be a substantial chunk of crucial sleep time to train my daughter to only sleep in her own bed?" And for those reading this who aren't parents and have already decided that they'd put their foot down and wouldn't allow their kid into their bed, I urge you just once to set your alarm to go off at 2:30 AM. Then walk to the kitchen and pick up a carton of milk. Next, decide whether you want to take the carton of milk into bed with you or repeat incessantly (to the carton) for 90 minutes that milk belongs in the refrigerator, not in mommy and daddy's bed. I draw this comparison because trying to reason with a five-year-old is almost exactly like reasoning with a carton of milk.

If you haven't figured it out already, I opt for sleep over teaching an over-arching lesson to a three and one-year-old at ungodly hours of the night/morning. I mean, I've tried to resist. Sonia and I have told Antonio, "Only come to our bed if you're sick or had a bad dream." So, naturally, the very next time when he rolls in, I ask what happened, and he grumbles, "I had a nightmare and my belly hurts." Kid's no idiot. Within minutes, he's positioned himself horizontal, his feet in my face and his head on Sonia's stomach. At least one of us was comfortable.

Ultimately, we're trying to strike a balance with our sons. If we're both flat out exhausted, there's no struggle at all and Antonio's in between us before we even realize it.Then there are times when we stand our ground and usher him back to his own bed and are successful in thwarting his efforts. And hey, there are also times when I welcome the company! When Sonia was out of town, I heard creaks in the floor boards when the kids were both sleeping and I was sitting down. I practically begged Antonio to sleep with me! It reminded me a lot of my high school days. Except replace children with every girl I ever met.

Whatever you decide to do, though, I don't judge, and I suggest you don't either. If my sons are 16 and 14 and still cuddling up next to me at 3 AM, you are well within your right to look down your nose. But until then, I'm clinging to my sleep like Rose clung to the floating door in Titanic. For without it, I would die.

Thanks for reading, and share with fellow parents who'd enjoy.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

What Was I Thinking Taking Both Kids for Flu Shots?

If you were shopping in the fruit section of a grocery store, you'd use a bag to carry your apples around, right? And if there weren't any more bags left, you'd ask the store manager for one. And if somehow the manager didn't have any, you'd probably just go home without the apples, because no one in their right mind would carry more than their hands could handle, right? Well, apparently I don't subscribe to this philosophy, as I brought both my apples (kids) to the doctor at the same time to get flu shots.

When the pressure's on, I either shine or fail miserably. To make a sports analogy out of this, when I'm bowling and facing a 10th frame where I need to get two strikes to win, I will either get the two strikes or roll a gutter on my first ball, extinguishing all hope. No in between. And within the span of an hour with both boys, I display both types of behavior. When Sonia flew to Michigan for a funeral and left me in charge of our sons, there were moments of pure hell where I'm sure they questioned my parental abilities as much as I did (the dual bath, for instance). But then within an hour, I'd be reading them books, kissing them goodnight and successfully putting both to sleep simultaneously. And when those types of things happen, you feel like an unstoppable bad-ass.

So when my wife asked me to take both our boys to the pediatrician for their flu shots, I conjured up my inner bad-ass, took a deep breath and slung my anything-but-manly diaper bag over my shoulder and ventured forward. It's always slightly alarming to be the one person solely responsible for two children's well-being. You always expect the absolute worst. That way, you're prepared for as big a mess as possible. It's like bringing a portable toilet when you're watching a Lord of the Rings movie. Same concept.

In general, this whole flu shot visit was going quite well. Antonio and Nate were playing in the waiting room without fighting, and Antonio was still clinging to the praise bestowed upon him for not crying when he got his last shot. I'd even commissioned him to console Nate after he'd gotten his shot, instilling a trust in him that he was taking quite seriously. He was the rock here, and he knew it. Within ten minutes, the nurse called us into the smaller waiting room, and we were on our way. Everything up to this point was perfect.

 The "Before" Picture

Then, it happened. Things were going so well, I felt invincible. So I let my guard down. When it was time for the doctor to administer the shots, Nate was the one sitting closest to her. So I figured, "He's closest, do him first." As soon as the needle pierced his skin, the blood-curdling scream resonated in my sympathetic ears. I knew I'd done something stupid. No sooner was the Band-Aid stretched across Nate's thigh when Antonio frantically shook his head and darted in the opposite direction. Since he was already standing on the padded area with the butcher paper, he didn't have far to run. I then had the unenviable task of trying to prevent Antonio from escaping the room while consoling a traumatized Nate at the same time. I realized in that chaotic moment how idiotic that decision was. It was like having him watch Friday the 13th, then standing over his bed wearing a goalie mask. It also didn't help that the doctor giving the shot had the bedside manner of Ben Stein on downers, but I digress.

The next deed to overcome was somehow pulling Antonio's shirt off while he flailed his arms like E-Honda in Street Fighter. At this point, a backup nurse came in to hold a crying Nate while I held Antonio's arms AND legs down to get the shot in. I truly felt like an evil human being. Five minutes earlier, they were hugging and kissing me. Then suddenly I'm constricting their limbs and letting people stick needles in them. How could they not think I'm a jerk? I would.

There was this awkward in between period where I was trying to dress both boys at the same time, while both had tears streaming down their faces, with a look of fear mixed with unadulterated anger. The backup nurse was still reluctantly holding Nate as he wriggled away into my arms. Antonio, while fending off sobs, looked at me while sniffling and asked, "Now when do I get my sticker?" It was the cutest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

Before I knew it, both boys were smiling again. It truly is remarkable the effect a sticker (and the promise of ice cream) can have on kids.And for those wondering where the "after shot" was, I simply didn't have the heart (or the hand) to snap one.

Thanks for reading, and pass it along if you think others would enjoy.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here!

Reluctant Justice: Disciplining Other People's Kids

Disclaimer: Your first instinct will be to assume that I'm talking about your kids in this blog, especially if our children spend any significant amount of time together. So if you're sitting there, allowing paranoia to creep into your psyche with each passing sentence, click on the following link for verification (I apologize in advance for the poor lighting, as I did this in my car at night):     https://vimeo.com/57212337


We've all awkwardly been there. Your perfectly angelic child is innocently strumming a kid-sized guitar, minded his own business, when his "friend" jumps off the couch and dropkicks him in the face. Best case scenario is the kid's parent pounces on them like a hawk, dutifully running down a laundry list of reasons why dropkicking your friends in the face is a bad thing. Next best case scenario is the kid's parents aren't there and you're free to lecture them as you see fit. This is always tricky as you have the luxury of being without the watchful eye of the respective parent, yet you have to be careful not to punish too harshly and find yourself on an episode of Judge Judy. The absolute worst case scenario is the kid's parent is there and does nothing. And this is when you learn a harsh, yet inevitable lesson: Jerks raise jerks.

 "You can't point at me! You're not my Dad!" (I know, that's the problem.)

Let me be clear about one thing before I go any further. My kids are both more than capable of being jerks. They practice on each other all the time. In fact, it's human nature to respond with anger when someone takes something that was perceived as "yours and only yours," (pretty sure this is how rap was born) even if that something wasn't taken with malicious intent. The key is to teach our children to become comfortable with compromise, with sacrificing. You'll find more often than not that the parents who don't hold their children responsible for being jerks were never held accountable by their own parents growing up. It's a viscious, jerky cycle.

But what do we do? How do we handle it when someone else's kid does something either to your kid or around your kid that you find completely reprehensible? The answer, naturally, isn't so easily determined (or else I wouldn't be asking it). Here are some options I've found most successful.

Shout in the general direction of all the kids and ask, "What is going on here?!"

It's safe to say that every kid there had something to do with that China set smashing on the floor, so don't single anyone out. Odds are another authority figure will piggy-back on your anger and blame the entire thing on their own kid. The downside of this method is it also frequently results in the awkwardness of the respective parent half-heartedly disciplining their kid because they'll look like a tool if they say nothing.

Danny Tanner It

You remember the scene. Full House's MVP Dad would pull one of his daughter's aside (when he really felt brave, he'd reel in Kimmy Gibbler, too) for a heart-to-heart about how badly they screwed up. It was brilliant if you think about it. Instead of raising his voice (and his blood pressure), he sent them to their room, made them think about it, then calmly explained what terrible human beings they were. Naturally, if you're doing this with a child other than your own, you'll need to tread lightly. But as long as you say what you're saying with a soothing tone (and a string section accompaniment), you lessen the risk of a fist fight with the other supposed adult in the room.

Falsely blame everything on your own kid

It sounds counterproductive, but I assure you it works most of the time. Most of us are decent enough to try to avoid the uncomfortableness of yelling at other people's children, so we instinctively place the blame on our own, even if they aren't the main culprit. It happens to me all the time. Antonio wants to play with his friend's ride-on car, said friend doesn't want to give Antonio a turn. Antonio then sulks and insists he wants nothing to do with him. At that point, I step in and remind Antonio that the car isn't his and he has to respect friend's decision (even though deep down I agreed that it was time to share). Almost every time, the parent steps in and yanks the kid out of the car, giving Antonio what he wants as his friend wails in his rear view mirror. Half the time you're the one yanking your kid out of the car kicking and screaming. It's never pleasant and almost every time, you think your kid's being less of a jerk than the other one.

Naturally, we all live under the guise that our child is better behaved than others. After all, they're a reflection of us and our disciplinary actions. If they suck then that means we suck. And frankly, a lot of us suck. And the rest have to simply deal with it.The sad fact is that, as parents, we're almost certain to lose at least one friend over the way we choose (or don't choose) to manage our kids' behavior when they're socializing. Ultimately,you'll end up spending more time with the parents of children who have similar disciplinary mindsets as you do, distancing yourself from the Mom who lets her daughter pour White Out all over your leather couch. But if said Mom is part of your family, you're screwed. And if that's the case, you better have a strong lower lip, because you'll be biting it more than you'd like!

Thanks for reading and pass it along to others who might enjoy.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here!
#parenting

How Do I Refrain From Laughing in My Child's Face?

We laugh at what is funny. Our brains don't have a special filter that distinguishes what is appropriate to laugh at from what is not. If we see or hear something that we view as comical, our instinct is to react with smile, a giggle, a Santa-sized chuckle. At best, we're able to stifle the laughter at its onset, before anyone notices. At worst, we erupt in an unhinged volcano of hysterics, peeing ourselves and only calming down once the person we laughed at has slammed the door and refused to come out. I'm usually in the latter category.

 I'm sorry, I've just never heard "fork and knife" pronounced that way.

I remember when I was a kid how unwittingly angry I would get when my father would laugh at my expense. It was unnerving because, what could I do other than be furious and deal with it? Being 3/4 Italian and 1/4 Irish, having a bad temper was predetermined. But I had absolutely no idea what to do when it surfaced. Ultimately, what I wound up doing whenever Dad would have a hearty laugh at my expense was take all the toys in my room he'd personally purchased and place them neatly outside the door of my room (a monogrammed baseball bat he got me at Cooperstown was the clincher, I thought). It was my way of saying, "Screw you! I detach myself from any association with you or your gifts!" If you haven't guessed already, it completely backfired. He thought that was even funnier than what I had originally done and I had significantly less toys to play with while I sat, sulking in my now empty room. Clearly, it was a flawed plan. I still carry a deep-seeded belief that any laughter occurring within earshot is somehow about that Cooperstown bat.

Due to my mostly self-imposed psychological scarring, I'm especially careful not to do the same with my kids. And I've already seen signs of myself in both my sons. Antonio, especially, is sensitive to anyone having a joke on his dime. While I completely get it and sympathize with his plight, I won't lie - not laughing when someone does something idiotic is nearly impossible. For instance, back when we were potty-training him, we left Antonio in the bathroom by himself for about five minutes as he insisted on privacy and we granted his request. Suddenly, we heard grunting, then crying. He came stumbling out of the bathroom, his kiddy toilet seat strapped on his forehead like a hat, then sliding down around his throat like a necklace. It was one of the saddest, yet hilarious things I'd seen in my life. What made it worse was my wife tried yanking it off, only to have the embarrassment and pain worsen by the ridges digging into the backs of his ears. It reminded me of when I was nine and after seeing Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, convinced myself it was a good idea to follow a fictional character named Veruca Salt's example, shoving a wad of gum behind my ear (and into my hair). I'm sure my Grandmother was happy she'd been tasked with babysitting me that night. Needless to say, I muffled laughter until he was finally free from his germy purgatory. And he didn't want to talk to me for the rest of the night. Hey, would you want to face anyone if you'd just stuck your head in a toilet?

Here's footage of the ghastly deed: https://vimeo.com/57088377

At the end of the day, we won't always possess the restraint to hold it in when we should. But I think we owe it to our children to consider the potential complex we could be giving them. Don't get me wrong; if something's funny, I'm going to laugh. However, we should be kind enough to at least place a hand over our mouths or shove our faces into pillows. I've found that faking a coughing fit also works. Faking a heart attack works at first, then only angers both my son and wife later.

I hope you've enjoyed this edition of the blog. If you did, please share it with someone who'd enjoy. Picking up some serious speed on my forthcoming parent book so I'll be counting on all of you to sing my praises!

Stay tuned,
jdp
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here!

#parenting